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I think the world would be a better place if we had dicks and vaginas on our heads and faces in our pants. So a man would have a big dick sprouting out from his neck and a woman would have a big vagina from hers. And their faces would now be in their underwear where the private parts used to be. Hidden.

If everyone walking around had a giant ugly penis or vagina on their head then you wouldn’t judge people by their looks. You wouldn’t judge that girl with the wonky eye or that guy with the substantial unibrow. You would judge them by their personality.

Then when you find someone you really like it would be because of who they are and not because of what they look like. Then you would proceed to the next step. Taking off each other’s clothes and getting to see their beautiful faces in their pants. And those faces would make out and that would be sex.

The only reason guys try to have sex with girls is not for the sex. It’s so we can tell our friends that we did it. I’m not talking about men: Not married men, not men in long relationships. Guys.

Imagine a world where there was a law: a law that banned guys from telling anyone their sex stories. Bars and clubs would be empty. Alcohol consumption would crumble. V-neck sales would plummet. In a world where guys can’t tell their friends they had sex, I’m pretty sure the entire economy would collapse.

It’s not the sex that we want, it’s the story. The satisfaction of an orgasm only lasts for a second but the satisfaction of a story can be sealed away and brought back any time. What do people love? What do people connect to? What do you people really want? A story. This is across the boards for everyone. But when that story is a sex story, guys treat it like a narrative gem that the ears of their bros must hear.

I once had a party at my house and I awoke the next morning to find two of my roommates showing two women out the door. And the second that door shut:

“Yo what happened? What happened? What happened?”

“You go first. You go first. You go first.”

“Ok. Ok. It was awesome.”

When a guy tells a sex story he is like a giddy little girl. If you look at a guy while he is telling a sex story, that is his true “O face.” On this particular night I had no story to tell. I didn’t get to join in on story time.

And for the rest of the day my roommates were different. Their heads were raised. Their mouths were smirked. Their chests were out. All guys do this after a night of naughty time. It’s not the orgasm we care about, it’s the ego boost. The coolest guy in the room is the one with the highest kill count, the one with the best story, the alpha-male of the moment. And honestly that’s embarrassing. Embarrassing because our egos are so hungry and we all know that a sex story is a three course meal.

And girls you know when you tell a guy not to tell anyone what happened? And he says he won’t? And he promises he won’t? OH HE GONNA TELL SOMEONE. How would he resist the temptation of sweet self-esteem?

It’s not about sleeping with someone, it’s about social approval. It’s that satisfaction we get from seeing our friend’s faces on edge as we describe that story from the night before. The laughs we get when we tell them the exposition. The “Oos” and “Awws” we get when we tell them the rising action. And the high-fives we get when we tell them all about the climax. And it doesn’t even have to be a good sex story.

A few weeks ago I went a club called BETA. I ran into this girl who I knew from first year university but barely ever spoke. However, we both knew who the other person was; it was one of those relationships. So we danced together. And then we danced a little more. Then we danced a lot more. Then we were outside BETA. Then we were in a cab. And soon we were back in my bedroom. And let me tell you the sex was…terrible. Let me re-phrase that: I was terrible. So far this story has an exposition and it has a rising action. But the climax of this story was pathetic. I was a wreck. I was a tragedy. I wanted to crawl into a quiet cave and die. And the next day my roommate asked me, “So how did it go?” And what did I say? “It was awesome.”

It didn’t matter that the sex was horrendous. I had my story. And I had my ego-boost. And I had something else as well. A memory. Something that I could think about at any time and have an excuse to raise my head, smirk my mouth, and stick out my chest. It doesn’t matter what actually happened in that story, it matters about how you remember it. I don’t even like sex, but I love the memory of it. And I love sharing that memory with friends. But, I don’t love that I love that. I’m ashamed that I’m a part of this group called “guys.” I’m ashamed of myself for wanting that story. And I hate myself for wanting that ego boost.

A little light that girls would put on their lower backs when they go clubbing. If the light is green is means they want to be grinded with. If the light is yellow it means it depends if you’re hot or not. If the light is red it means please don’t dance with me. Girls could have a little controller that clips on to their front so they can switch the setting whenever they want. It could be called STOPLIGHT.